


There's no Pancake too Big for my Heavenly Father to Flip

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is not good at comfort words, Belly Rubs, Casual Miracles, Casual Wiles, Cooking, Crowley is Stressed, Cuddling & Snuggling, Existential Angst, Feeding, Footnotes, Gen, Grocery Shopping, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Napping, Pancakes, Stomach Ache, Stuffing, Texting, The Arrangement, The Struggle between Good and Evil TM, Weird Snake Biology, mental gymnastics, pre-book, who cares about consistent timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: After a few exceptionally busy months, the forces of Heaven and Hell attempt to outwit each other in Aziraphale’s kitchen.That is, Aziraphale makes pancakes and Crowley eats them.





	There's no Pancake too Big for my Heavenly Father to Flip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoloXam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/gifts).



> Back in March, HoloXam and I saw a post about [this sign](https://dwarven-beard-spores.tumblr.com/post/171880749561/shiftythrifting-submitted-by) (which reads “there’s no pancake too big for my heavenly father to flip”) and our conversation promptly spawned two different pancake-themed story ideas. I decided then to write this one as a proper fic and a gift and, er, nine months later here we are!
> 
> This is super indulgent for me and I did my best to make it super indulgent for her too.

In the early years of the 21st century, Hell had an uptick of interest in Earthly Matters[1] and Heaven, thinking of their image, had taken the same interest.

[1. Only Satan and a very few demons knew that this was preparation for the arrival of the Antichrist. Said Antichrist hadn't been conceived yet, but things were going well between Satan and the young lady in question and he was optimistic about planning ahead.]

As a result, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves very busy for several months. They barely saw each other, and instead communicated primarily through texts that went something like this:

Crowley: _{R u in London?} {Wiles please?}_

Aziraphale, several days later: _{Yes. Certainly. And I assume you can handle a few blessings while you're... Where are you?}_

Crowley, within seconds: _{Already done} {Moscow >:( >:( }_

Aziraphale: _{Ah. My condolences. Thank you. I'll get to the wiles this week.}_

Crowley: _{Thanks >:) }_

After this, Aziraphale would sometimes ask _{When are you coming back to London?}_ [2] and Crowley would sometimes say _{I hate this}_ [3] and that was that.

[2. Crowley never knew.]  
[3. Aziraphale always knew.]

Aziraphale couldn't say he was happy with this state of affairs, but the Plan was ineffable and it was only a matter of time before things calmed down. He told Crowley as much, but it didn't seem to make a difference as the demon's texting became more erratic. Long paragraphs that said very little were interspersed with weeks of silence and replies that said exclusively [dunno]. Aziraphale began to feel a certain amount of concern when he looked at his phone. This was to be expected; Crowley was undoubtedly off doing things that were particularly Evil. Still. It would be nice if something could be done about it.

The idea came to him a week later when he remembered that he could cook.

Cooking was not, strictly speaking, a heavenly duty. Angels do not cook in Heaven, and very few ever bother to eat. However, cooking, baking, and various other culinary endeavors had been proven to do enough Good on Earth that the act was considered to be properly angelic.[4]

[4. As long as the food was for someone else.]

Despite this, Aziraphale really did enjoy cooking.

He had picked it up quite early on, back in the 11th century, and filed it as professional development even though it had mostly been because he was bored. Since then he had been practicing and improving at irregular intervals; taking a class here, doing a bit of decidedly not-angelic experimenting there, spending several decades only patronizing restaurants because he couldn't be bothered,[5] and so on. He had gotten a bit rusty since becoming fond of takeaway, but he could certainly pull something off. Perhaps he could sort things out with Crowley at the same time.

[5. He filed that as professional development too. It was research.]

After a brief inspection of the kitchen above his shop, which was rather empty, he found his phone abandoned on a bookshelf between _The Hobbit_ and a very old instruction manual on creating clocks. He scrolled past seven new messages from Crowley, noticing that he was back in England at last, and then typed out _{Where are you now?}_

A text came back nearly a minute later. _{Tempting journalists}_

 _{Well stop doing that. I need you to pick up some ingredients at the shops.}_ Aziraphale typed out and sent the list while waiting for Crowley to make up his mind.

 _{what for?}_ Crowley finally asked.

_{Good. Pancakes. You owe me for that murderer you didn’t want to deal with.}_

Aziraphale had no doubt that Crowley would concede his request. He puts the phone down and went back to the kitchen, and completely missed the eventual buzz heralding the messages: _{I guess these journalists are pretty tempted}_ and _{ok}._

* * *

The journalists were indeed pretty tempted. Crowley had only been at this paper for four days, and he’d already convinced the topmost manager to embezzle money for her decorative hatchet collection, caused three existential crises that led to top reporters retiring to take up some form of gardening, and persuaded eleven others to give up on actual news in favor of making up celebrity scandals and writing passionate editorials about the virtues of cufflinks.

Honestly, the journalists were _so_ tempted that he was now questioning the importance of his work. Maybe humans had finally chosen a direction for themselves and Hell would decide Crowley didn’t need to mess with them anymore. Was it possible he’d done too good a job these past years? That would be just _perfect_.

He rubbed his eyes as he got into the Bentley and drove off at a stately 80 kilometers an hour. Demons didn’t need to sleep but Crowley had gotten in the habit and it had been months since he’d had a proper nap. There was something about Hell’s latest orders that had really unsettled him. An urgency he hadn’t heard in centuries. As though he was one oversight away from Ligur popping up and saying “that’s it, we’re reassigning you to construction again, say good-bye to everything you’ve ever cared about.”[6] He was so concerned he didn’t even notice he was driving the wrong way down a one-way street, though it was such a habit that was hardly surprising.

[6. Crowley had done most of the labor involved with paving the road to Hell with frozen door-to-door salesmen. He did not know what kind of ideas his superiors had for bricking up the windows of Hell, or erecting the traffic lights of Hell, or tiling the bathrooms of Hell. He didn’t want to know.]

But surely Crowley could spend a few hours running errands for Aziraphale. He did owe the angel; he wasn’t sure how he would have managed without someone holding down the fort at home. And it had been so long since they’d done anything together. No ducks, no wine, no existential conversations. The longer they worked together, the harder any time apart seemed to be… at least for Crowley. Aziraphale was fine. It was one of the constants of the universe: _Aziraphale was always fine._

Bastard.

Although his eyes were unfocused and the world was a blur speeding past his windows, some part of his mind caught a sign and yelled at him, and he screeched around a corner and into a parking spot that hadn’t been open a moment before. _Moving cars about in car park,_ he noted to himself. _Appropriately demonic._

There were endless opportunities for demonic activity in your average Waitrose. As Crowley walked through the aisles, trolley wheels rusted and coupons expired, packages of pasta shuffled onto the floor, and signs decided they’d be better off labeling things incorrectly, just in case.

Deliberately blocking the aisle, Crowley pulled out his phone to check the list Aziraphale had texted him. Eggs, milk, butter, etc. Pretty normal stuff for pancakes, plus chocolate chips and whipped cream and fruit that Crowley assumed would be added to the batter. He grimaced. They would be unfathomably Good pancakes. Allowing— no, _facilitating—_ their release into the world would be wildly irresponsible of him.

He licked his lips. Irresponsible or not, Aziraphale had called in a favor, and Crowley could use a snack. He’d figure out how to minimize the damage later.

So he strode through the supermarket, squinting to make sure he chose the most expensive items. Soon his cart was overfull with more ingredients than it could reasonably hold. Aziraphale hadn’t specified amounts, and there was nothing more Evil than forcing a supermarket to _sell out of butter._ [7] And sure, maybe he had enough raw materials for Aziraphale to make pancakes for days, but the inconvenience he caused should balance it out. Two birds, or something like that.

[7. Though to be fair, “sell out” was the wrong phrase. Whatever Crowley didn’t want simply relocated itself to another shop or a train line somewhere. Whatever Crowley _did_ want hardly counted as “sold,” because he never bothered to pay for it.]

Just ahead, at the end of an aisle, was a stack of melons, each fruit balanced carefully on the ones below it. Nearby was a woman in a brown dress exuding waves of desire. Crowley passed her, demonic influence making him seem just a bit more unnoticeable than he really was, and whispered, "do it." The woman hesitated, so he urged again, "go on. What's the harm?"

With a nod, the woman stepped forward, grabbed one of the melons from the bottom of the stack, and tugged. Then she grabbed another. The melons from the top rolled through the empty spaces, thumped onto the floor, and began making their way down the aisles. The woman laughed, then, realizing what she'd done, murmured “oh shit" and hurried away, the two incriminating fruits clattering in her basket.

Crowley grinned and punted a melon into the baked goods section.

Since he was out, Crowley took the opportunity to pick up a few things he needed. Some nice spices, cheap whiskey of the sort he pretended he didn’t drink, a few packages of biscuits, two limes, three avocados, and a rubber snake from the toy aisle to nestle among his plants so they’d think he was always watching.

On the way out, he winked at the chip and pin machines, leaving them unable to do math, and willed glasses and goatees onto every model in the magazines near the front.

The chaos had him feeling almost satisfied with the trip, but as soon as he pulled out of the parking lot, he was gripped with another sense of foreboding. Maybe chaos wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe Aziraphale had gotten impatient and started without him, making the trip useless. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He texted Aziraphale to let him know he was on his way.

As usual, there was no answer.

* * *

Aziraphale had not started yet. He had pulled out his eclectic collection of cookbooks spanning the past several hundred years and gone looking for pancake recipes. Some, such as The Brownie Bible[8] or the Jello cookbook from the 1950s, were less useful than others. These went into piles the counter, and he spread the rest across the table in the middle of the room. Aziraphale finally settled on a simple but effective recipe, annotated with stars and a few suggestions from a previous attempt. 

[8. The blasphemy of it amused Aziraphale to no end. Also, the recipes were delicious.]

Right on cue, the sound of burning rubber and alarmed pedestrians announced Crowley’s arrival, followed by the distant creak of a locked door being opened. Moments later, the demon sauntered through the kitchen door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry. I got the stuff.” Crowley nodded towards the table, which was suddenly laden with an unreasonable amount of ingredients. Aziraphale counted at least five gallons of milk. “Hi to you too, by the way.”

“You’ve rather outdone yourself,” Aziraphale said, extracting his cookbook from under six cartons of eggs. “I’m sure they love you down at the shops.”

“Nah,” Crowley flashed a grin. “They didn’t even notice I was there.”

Aziraphale sorted the ingredients and tried not to observe Crowley too blatantly. His sleek suit seemed more rumpled than usual, as though Crowley had allowed it to finally behave like fabric. He was agitated, exhausted, angular, tense… which was all to be expected, really, but today he seemed _more_ of everything. Crowley’s occult aura coiled tightly around his body, like it was trying to be unnoticed or trying to smother him.

“I do hope you weren’t expecting me to use all of this today,” Aziraphale said, moving the seventh bottle of vanilla next to the others.

Crowley’s face fell ever so slightly, but he shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Aw, where’s the fun in that?” He flipped through three pages of the Brownie Bible and then knocked it on the floor.

Aziraphale let it be for the moment. Certainly Crowley was really having a hard time of it and required a gentle touch. He took a breath. “Thank you,” he said. “For the groceries.”

Crowley looked up and met Aziraphale’s eyes for one searching moment. He slumped in on himself. “Oh,” he muttered. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll just. Bye.”

He was halfway out the door before Aziraphale realized what had happened and intercepted him. “Oh no, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “That’s not what I meant at all. You must stay. Come on.”[9] He guided Crowley to a chair and sat him down. “I must say it’s good to see you again.”

[9. In Crowley’s defense, Aziraphale wasn’t good at gratitude, and most of his expressions seemed to say “leave me alone,” regardless of intention.]

Crowley let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said. He uncoiled slightly. “Downstairs has been pushing it. They’ve got this new ‘five-point plan’. Kill me now.”

Aziraphale made a sympathetic noise and turned his attention to the pancakes. “It won’t do any good,” he said conversationally. “I don’t think Heaven’s ever had a plan with less than seven points.”

There was a thump, and Aziraphale turned to see Crowley with his head on the table. As he watched, Crowley raised an arm to shove a bag of sugar onto the floor.

So much for conversation.

Still, the silence allowed Aziraphale to focus fully on his cooking. He measured and stirred, using his largest bowl to accommodate as many of the ingredients on the table as possible. It was clear he’d need to make several batches. As he worked, the measuring spoons and cups quietly went through a moral dilemma, as one very powerful being wanted them to scatter themselves in the most inconvenient corners possible and a second wanted them exactly where he expected at all times. Aziraphale anticipated as much, and checked each utensil before he used it.

By the time he was done with the batter, Crowley had stopped sulking and was turning the stove on and off with a smug grin. Jets of flame burst several feet into the air and then died down. Aziraphale sighed. “Dear, if you wouldn’t mind,” he murmured, and nudged Crowley out of the way. The stove calmed down immediately and Aziraphale placed a griddle over the flames.

“So who’re the pancakes for?” Crowley asked, staring at the batter as though he wanted to overturn it onto the floor.

“Well I assumed you and I would start,” Aziraphale said carefully. “It seems the only proper way to go about it. Though they’re intended to spread Good, you know, so I ought to get them out to the neighbors once we’re through.”[10]

[10. This was the sort of thing Aziraphale told himself when he had no intention of following through with the second half of the plan.]

“Hmm,” Crowley said. He absently opened a carton of eggs and swallowed one whole. Aziraphale didn’t bat an eye. That was a Thing Crowley did sometimes when he was feeling particularly snakeish and couldn’t resist. Aziraphale took out a fork for him anyway. Snake or no, pancakes were a messy business.

The carton of eggs tumbled to the ground. Yolks splattered everywhere. Crowley’s mouth fell open. “Shi—” he began, then cleared his throat. “I meant to do that.”

Aziraphale repaired the eggs with a glare. Hopefully Crowley would calm down once he had some good food in him.

* * *

The first batch of pancakes cooked quickly, and Crowley made the decision not to sabotage them. They smelled amazing. Aziraphale flipped three pancakes on a plate for each of them, and Crowley took his and inhaled deeply. They were too angelic for Earth, way too angelic for Crowley, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. He smothered the pancakes with butter and syrup, then handed the toppings to Aziraphale, who had just put on a second batch. 

The first forkful was _bliss._ Crowley let out a small whimper of appreciation that he could only hope Aziraphale hadn’t heard. This was… this was something else. Sweet and buttery, warm and delightfully light. He’d been eating the past few months, but not eating _well._ It had seemed inappropriate somehow, to intersperse political manipulation and everyday cruelty with delicious meals taken alone. Not that it had stopped him before, but, well. It felt different now.

Crowley was nearly through his stack when he remembered he was supposed to play it cool. He made a point to chew the next bite thoroughly, and glanced over at Aziraphale. The angel was standing beside the stove, watching him. “I take it you approve?” Aziraphale said, before taking another bite of pancake.

Crowley licked his lips. “They’re alright.”

“More?” Aziraphale gestured to the griddle where the next batch had just been flipped.

A shrug. “Yeah, sure.”

Crowley finished his first stack and started in on the second. The pancakes were clearly part of some heavenly machinations, but Aziraphale didn’t seem inclined to go out and do anything with them until he and Crowley were sated, which meant that all Crowley had to do was make sure they ate all the pancakes before Aziraphale got around to it. Then the forces of Good and Evil would cancel each other out, and everything would be as it should be. Perhaps he shouldn’t have given Aziraphale _so many_ ingredients to work with, but that was fine. Crowley’s stomach growled. He was hungry enough for the task, and he could use any excuse to hang around the angel.

Aziraphale put on a third batch, and then a fourth, as well as a kettle for tea. The pancakes cooked quickly which left little time for conversation, but in between bites Aziraphale rambled on about what had been happening in London, and which rare books he'd acquired in the past months.

"Sell anything recently?" Crowley asked cruelly. He hoped it would distract from how much he was enjoying the meal.[11]

[11. It didn’t.]

"Very little, thankfully," Aziraphale reported. "There's a new shop down the street. They've hardly got as interesting a selection as I do, but they take care of most of the casual customers."

"And what gave them the notion to set up so close to another bookshop?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "A sudden spark of inspiration," he said. "Good feelings. I don't believe they'll go out of business any time soon."

"That's crafty," Crowley said. Aziraphale didn’t tend to go for crafty.

"One does what one must," Aziraphale said loftily. He picked up Crowley's plate and served him another stack of pancakes, the fifth. He took a fifth stack for himself. Then he turned down the heat on the griddle while he mixed another bowl of batter, this one with raspberries folded in. His movements were strong and confident, the bowl held close to his round belly to give him more control. Six new pancakes were ladled onto the griddle with only one mishap, a blob of batter that dripped early and got caught in the corner, where it would surely burn.

“Bother,” Aziraphale said, and wiped it up with his bare finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth to lick the batter off, and then turned his attention to the butter and the stack of pancakes waiting for him.

Crowley tasted raspberries on the air.

* * *

Angels and demons are supernatural creatures, and thus are not necessarily bound by mortal limitations. They do not need to physically age, or sleep, and they do not need to eat or, if they’ve started, ever stop eating [12]. Aziraphale and Crowley, however, had gotten very used to inhabiting human-shaped bodies, and to treating those bodies in ways that mostly resembled what humans did to theirs. Which is to say that they could pack an outrageous amount of food away but would eventually, by sheer force of habit, get full.

[12. They are also under no obligation to enjoy any of those things.]

The raspberry batter disappeared quickly, and then chocolate chip, and then cinnamon. Aziraphale and Crowley had used up an entire bottle of maple syrup and most of a bottle of whipped cream, though at least half of that had gone directly from the nozzle to Crowley’s mouth when he could pretend Aziraphale wasn’t looking. It gave the dear boy comfort to cause trouble, so Aziraphale said nothing.

All of it settled heavily in Aziraphale's stomach, warm and comfortable. As he mixed up a batch of blueberry batter, he found he had to shift his balance to adjust for the added weight of the food. He ate the next batch more slowly, with one hand resting gently on his belly.

The indulgence, as it was, did not come off particularly obviously on Aziraphale, not unless you felt for the solid mass of food under the thick layer of fat around his middle. Crowley’s corporation, though, was slim and, much like his serpent form, bulged easily to display what he’d eaten. His sleek suit had let itself out to accommodate but, as he’d settled into the situation, he had slid halfway down the chair so his full stomach swelled notably upwards.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Crowley was already looking far more at ease than when he’d arrived. His sunglasses were now perched atop his head, and his aura had considerably relaxed. Now he was telling Aziraphale about the art trends in Russia and whether or not they were worth investigating, hands gesturing languidly along with his points.

Aziraphale smiled smugly. Food was an excellent way to soothe's one's nerves, and Crowley was unlikely to leave any time soon. This plan of Aziraphale’s was very Good indeed.

“Would you care for some more, my dear?” he asked as he plopped another stack on Crowley’s plate without waiting for a reply.

“Keep ‘em coming,” Crowley said, and grinned.

* * *

Three-quarters of an hour later, Crowley sleepily eyed the much-depleted table of ingredients. There were still enough for Aziraphale to make another few batches, probably, but Crowley was very full indeed. His stomach ached. 

He yawned and his jaw clicked in its socket. Every movement was heavy and slow, like molasses, like a rock covered in molasses rolling down an incline that was not very steep. Had to be. Too many pancakes for anything else.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley blinked. “Mnh?”

“You said you’d been in America. Is there anything happening I ought to know about? Not professionally, of course. As a point of interest.”

“Dunno,” said Crowley. America seemed absurdly far away. _Aziraphale_ seemed far away, and he was just across the table. Crowley blinked again to bring him into focus. The angel was absently twisting a fork between his fingers, swirling a last bite of pancake around on his plate as he waited for Crowley’s answer. Crowley tried to think about America, but all he could focus on was how round and soft and warm Aziraphale looked. That and the persistent ache of his own swollen belly.

He considered sitting up and leaning forward to get closer to Aziraphale, but the slightest effort in that direction caused his stomach to cramp, and he abandoned the attempt.

Apparently deciding that Crowley wasn’t actually going to answer, Aziraphale ate the last bite and sighed heavily. It wasn't a sigh of frustration— Crowley was intimately familiar with those— but one of satisfaction, and it ended in a soft hiccup. "Oh my," he said softly. He looked almost as full as Crowley felt, which was to say very. He hiccuped again. "I suppose this is as good a place as any to stop," he said, with a rueful look at the remainder of the batter.

“Ngk,” said Crowley. There was almost certainly a reason he had to keep eating. Something demonic something wiles yaddah yaddah. He wanted a nap.

Aziraphale absently reached his fork across the table and confiscated the last few bites of Crowley's pancakes. Crowley watched them go with a vague sense of relief.

"I'm gonna be tasting maple syrup for decades," Crowley said, running his tongue over his lips. It was not a complaint.

"Good," Aziraphale said. "All's well, then."

"Mmm." All was well. Crowley let his eyes fall closed, too full and sleepy to maintain much of a conversation. This wouldn't be a long nap, anyway. Just until Aziraphale kicked him out of the kitchen.

For a moment, the only sounds were Aziraphale chewing and Crowley’s shallow breathing, the rattle of wind outside and a low growl in Crowley’s gut.

"Perhaps we should retire to the sofa," Aziraphale suggested, and Crowley's eyes opened. That sounded _nice._ [13] The sofa was large enough to rest comfortably, but small enough that it was very easy to sort of “accidentally” cuddle up against a warm and cozy Aziraphale.

[13. Crowley liked Aziraphale’s sofa. Aziraphale had owned the it since the 1920s. He asserted that it held up remarkably well, and was even more comfortable than the day he’d acquired it. He did not mention that that this was because, unintentionally, the one occult and one ethereal being held it to certain standards. Both thought the sofa ought to be extremely comfortable (that is, very soft) and it invariably was.]

The only problem was that the sofa was downstairs, and Crowley and Aziraphale were upstairs. A tragedy. Crowley closed his eyes again in resignation. ”Don’t know about that, angel.”

"Nonsense," Aziraphale said. "Up we get." He braced himself on the table and, after a few false starts, heaved himself unsteadily to his feet. He hiccuped again.

Then his soft hands were on Crowley’s arm and his back and Crowley found himself being hauled upwards. His stomach complained. “I hope you— nng— know what you’re doing,” he muttered.

“Of course, dear boy. Of course.”

* * *

What Aziraphale was doing, in some circles, might be called gambling, or investing. He would never call it that, of course. The premise was simple: endure a small amount of discomfort now to achieve a large amount of comfort very shortly. In principle, Aziraphale approved of that sort of gamble; it was the sort that got you into Heaven, after all. In practice, he approved as long as the discomfort wasn’t all that bad, and there weren’t any books he could be reading instead. [14]

[14. Or snacks he could be eating. Or wines he could be drinking. Or music he could be listening to. Or Crowleys he could be talking with. Etc.]

In this case, he’d determined that lounging on the sofa was worth the discomfort of moving, even stuffed as he was. Besides, he could hardly let Crowley fall asleep for who-knows-how-long sprawled across a hard wooden chair in his kitchen. He’d only be in the way.

It did not occur to him that this may have been an erroneous assessment. Not even halfway across the kitchen with one hand gingerly holding his belly to keep it from jostling, and the other supporting most of Crowley’s weight. He was doing Good, and if no other angel had ever done so in quite this fashion, well that was too bad for them.

On the other side of the kitchen door was Aziraphale’s back room. Normally there was a hallway and then a staircase and _then_ the back room, but today the shop had made an exception. Crowley gave a strangled chuckle as Aziraphale deposited him on the red cushions.

"Thought you called that cheating," he said.

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale answered, breathless, and sat next to him with a heavy “oof.” That was much better. The sofa was soft and, now that he wasn’t moving he could enjoy the weight of his body pressing him into the seat and the delightful strained fullness of his stomach.

Crowley snorted and slumped against Aziraphale’s side. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, angel,” he murmured, but there was no bite to it, only familiarity.

“I suppose you would have rather walked the long way around?”

Crowley groaned, and an arm curled protectively around his belly.

“I thought not.” Aziraphale did not approve of using miracles on his body unless absolutely necessary, so he did not miracle his hiccups away. He did give them a very stern thought that frightened most of the larger ones into smaller and less obtrusive _hic_ s that soon gave up altogether.

Crowley squirmed, then poked a finger into Aziraphale’s stomach.

Aziraphale yelped. “Now really, Crowley!”

“How’re you still fine?”

“What sort of a question is that?” Aziraphale huffed.

“Dunno,” Crowley mumbled, and buried his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The dear boy was looking poorly again. Curled in on himself, shoulders tense, his aura wavering queasily. The pained noise from the back of his throat suggested a stomachache, and Aziraphale would have very much liked to write it off as just that, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that the stress Crowley had carried in with him hadn’t gone away at all.

That made Aziraphale uneasy. That meant there was nothing he could do about it.

Then Crowley groaned and clutched at his stomach, and Aziraphale decided he could at least assist with the first problem. First, he miracled up a glass of ouzo and handed it to Crowley with the firm instruction to drink it. Crowley whined but did as he was told.[15]

[15. Really, Aziraphale thought, Crowley could go too far. It was only right to make a habit of stealing his desserts.]

Then, with a bit of shifting, he changed positions so that Crowley’s face rested on Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale’s arm draped over Crowley’s body. Crowley grumbled at being disturbed, and he flinched when Aziraphale’s hand brushed his swollen belly.

“What’re you doing?”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale murmured. He rubbed Crowley’s arms, and then his side as he worked his way across Crowley’s body. Crowley tensed at the touch but then, rather quickly, seemed to change his mind and relax into it. He usually enjoyed this sort of thing. Eventually, Aziraphale reached his destination and pressed gently on Crowley’s stomach.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“Hush, dear. It will help,” said Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t push him away, so he began rubbing gently.

Crowley let out a small whimper and then, when Aziraphale frowned and lifted his hand, an even smaller, “don’t stop.”

So Aziraphale continued. It wasn’t that Crowley’s body _couldn’t_ hold this much food—though he was admittedly stretching himself—it was that he’d gone all tense around it. His belly was tight and hard, and for several moments he held it tighter before the warmth of Aziraphale’s touch won him over even in this vulnerable area.

Aziraphale was gentle as he worked the tension out in slow circles. Crowley gave a tight sigh as Aziraphale rubbed just under his ribs, so Aziraphale paid special notice to the spot, and to the area just under his navel that made Crowley let out a high moan. It was relaxing like this, like rereading though his fingers the events of the past few hours. Crowley was warm and heavy and very very _present,_ and something Aziraphale didn't understand ached in his chest.

He found himself saying, “I do hope you won’t be sent away again anytime soon.”

Crowley grunted. "Can't promise that, angel."

"No," Aziraphale said. "Of course not."

"But," Crowley interrupted himself with a yawn, "not 'till I can move, anyway.”

For a moment, Aziraphale entertained the idea that he might cook for Crowley again, make an attempt to keep him around. Crowley could eat and sleep and that would set him right. Surely that counted as wile-thwarting.

But that was hardly necessary. Crowley was resilient, Aziraphale coveted his privacy, and everything was fine.

So there was no need for him to tell Crowley "there's no hurry," but he said it anyway.

Crowley yawned. A moment later his eyes were closed. Aziraphale kept rubbing his belly as Crowley's low groans became gentle sighs, which became deep, even breathing and then he was absolutely asleep.

Aziraphale reached for the side table, where there was always a book waiting for him.

* * *

A day and a half later, as Crowley snored quietly on his chest, Aziraphale gave into the unusual impulse that had been building and pressed his mouth to the top of Crowley’s head. It wasn’t a kiss just… something fond. Crowley smelled like whipped cream and butter, and then Aziraphale pulled away feeling rather guilty.

Luckily, Crowley did not wake.

* * *

He did not wake for another three days, at which point he cracked his eyes open, determined it was too bright and exactly the right amount of warm, and closed them again.

However, eventually coming to after another two weeks to find himself on Aziraphale’s lap proved to be a delightfully pleasant experience. Crowley was too sated and safe to do more than lie there for several hours, murmuring salty nothings while Aziraphale’s thumb rubbed back and forth along his side. He stretched, long and luxurious, his heels pressing against the sofa arm.

Eventually Aziraphale said, “I should make sure those ingredients we left don’t go to waste.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. He simply _couldn’t_ let those pancakes out into the world. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna donate them to some knitting club or something,” he said, as disparagingly as possible.

“What would _you_ suggest I do with them?” Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley grinned. The maple syrup taste on his tongue had almost faded. “Well,” he said. “I could eat.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’d love to know what you thought :) 
> 
> If you want to come talk endlessly about pancakes, or just listen to me talk endlessly about pancakes, I can also be found on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, and on twitter and dreamwidth as dwarvenbeardspores.


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